


Miss You

by tari_roo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-31
Updated: 2011-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 17:09:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/664421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tari_roo/pseuds/tari_roo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> Prompt fic for <a href="http://hoodie-time.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://hoodie-time.livejournal.com/"></a><b>hoodie_time</b></lj>, Dean focused_hurt/comfort meme.  Hurt!Dean mid season 6 has to rely on Robot!Sam for first aid and a little brotherly comfort. Yeah, that’s going to go well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Miss You

Most of the blood wasn’t his, but enough of it was that he was feeling just that off side of disconnected. ‘Yeah, let’s spilt up and track the vamps down. You’re ok with that, Dean. Right? It’s not like I let you get turned last time, no... no problem, right?’ Dean wiped at his eyes, belatedly remembering the blood and then not caring. Sam was off somewhere tracking down the other possible vamp and Dean was making his way back to the Impala, mission accomplished. ‘Ha! Mr Perfect I Have No Soul is probably there already, clean as a whistle and wondering what’s taking me so long. Douchebag.’

Some asshat root jumped up and tripped him, and Dean barely caught himself in time, narrowly missing face planting into a tree. Ok, so maybe more of the blood was his than the vamps, but hell if he was going to tell Sam. Righting himself, willing his legs to just work damnit, Dean pressed on, batting at the low lying branches with his machete. Ok, so maybe he’d been a little more reckless than usual with the vamp, charging in without really checking the lay of the land. But hell, vamps were a sore point at the moment and if there was one less bloodsucker out there, all the better. The thing was still dead, er, headless and who cares if it’d had tossed him around some, opened up a few veins, mocked his weakness. One good blow was all it took and no more sneering laughter. It sure as hell didn’t care anymore, and Sam sure as hell wouldn’t.

The dim forest titled just a tad as Dean paused, wiped his eyes again, smelling blood and iron and feeling sticky. Not far now, just a few more steps, then Impala and Percocet and Whisky. In that order. Dean took one step, knee and thigh shaking like anything, then another. And another. Way to go, Winchester. Bloodloss schumdloss.

The ground came up to meet him with forceful determination and all Dean had time to think before flesh met forest floor was, “Crap!”

In the dark abyss of pain and screams and mindless terror, Dean heard someone calling his name. ‘Cas?’ The voice was deep, powerful and getting closer. Sounded... familiar. “Dean!”

“Sammy?”

Big rough hands on his shoulders turning him around, making ground and forest and sky all tilt into one. “Don’t you dare throw up on me, dude!” Dean didn’t take well to orders these days so he was laughing even as he groaned through a heave. There was only bile and beer to come up and his aim sucked, but Sam cursed along with him.

Sam. Sam was here.

It was a shot of release in a world all twisted and dark. Sam was here. Sammy, Sammy, Sammy.

“You hurt, Dean?”

“Ya think, dumbass?” The words sounded off, the tone angry and why was he pissed at Sam? 

“Where?” The big sasquatch’s hands were pressing and prodding everywhere like a monstrous squid and Dean batted at them feebly. “Quit... just get me up.” 

Sam ignored him and continued to poke and prod, peeling away layers, trying to find the source of the blood. “You get it?” 

For a good three seconds Dean had no idea what Sam was talking about, and stared at Sam’s face, watching for something. Finally remembering that he wouldn’t find it, wouldn’t find that odd crease of worry, the bitchface of concern, the eyes of doom, Dean remembered everything else and sighed, “Yeah. It got it.”

“You sure?”

Dean didn’t even bother replying and shoved at Sam’s hands instead, trying to sit up. “Help me up.” Sam stared at him, weighing and no doubt finding him wanting and grunted. Large hands, big overgrown hands, helped Dean up and the world tilted again but those hands stayed the fall, held off yet another face plant. Closing his eyes against the pain and swirl, Dean let those hands be his brother’s for just a moment. Never mind that the face didn’t match, never mind that they were a little rougher than usual. For a split second, Sam was there.

“You ready?”

Not, Dean you shouldn’t be standing. Not, Dean you look like shit. Not, Dean, wait here, while I get the kit. 

“Dean?” The concern was belated, remembered, forced. But the guy was trying. Maybe. Opening his eyes, letting the world settle, reality, this reality sink in, Dean nodded slowly, “Let’s go. You can play nurse at the motel.”

The nod was short, professional, the assistance competent and sure. And hell if Dean wouldn’t have traded it all for fumbling, anxious, overwrought Sammy. 

‘Ah, grow a pair, Winchester. Suck it up. Deal with it. Quit whining like a little bitch.’

And if Dean leaned a little more into the support than he should have, than he would have before, Sam sure wouldn’t care.

‘Shit, I miss you.’

Fin

  



End file.
